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Sarakhamon
Sarakhamon is a huge range of rocky hills that stretches across Khamhara, north to south. It has been used for centuries as a natural border between states, and has also been the field of some of humanity's largest struggles, notably the enormous, dramatic battle between the Arrian Sultunate and the Imperium. After the Imperial "victory" at Sarakhamon, the hills marked the border between the new prefecture of Imperial Khamhara and the "heathen" states of Khamhara. Veterans Discussing the Battle at Sarakhamon "I was at Sarakhamon too, you know. I've seen my fair share of awful things." "Everyone was at Sarakhamon at one time or another," said Caspra, "the question is, when were you there? At the start, when it was all a great big adventure, off to give Johnny Sultan a bop on the head, or at the end, when.." His voice faltered. They sat in silence for a moment longer, the sound of their chewing uncomfortable. Caspra cursed himself for causing the awkwardness between them. "The start," said Osten quietly, "my legion was redeployed to defend the railways in Kash about two weeks after we arrived at Sarakhamon." "Then--" "Then you were lucky." that voice was Oriel's. The guildsman loomed out of the gathering dusk, contorted into weird, hideous shapes by the dancing firelight, and sat down heavily beside the other two. "You were as lucky as any man could ever hope to be, and you should thank every god you can think of every minute of every day for delivering you from hell itself." "Was it.. really that bad?" said Osten, "I mean, I've heard stories, but once you've heard enough, you don't know what to believe.." "Any man who told you what it was like was lying." said Oriel, and Caspra had never heard him sound so certain in any statement. "No one could put into words how it truly was. There aren't words for that. I still can't believe to this very day. I can't believe that it's really over." Osten bowed his head, cowed by the older man's assertions. "What happened? You know, at the very end. How did you win?" At that, Caspra and Oriel both barked a short, sarcastic laugh. "Win? We didn't win." said Caspra, "Oh, the Emperor got the report he wanted, and we achieved our objective, but don't let anyone lie to you; the Imperium never won at Sarakhamon." "What do you mean? You took the wall, and pushed all the way west to the beginnings of the High Desert, didn't you?" "Oh yes. We took the wall alright. I'll never forget that day. The order went from man to man, down the length of the trenches. Lord-General Lothair wanted us to rush the enemy positions; over the top and charge at the wall, and any man who turned back, or any man who stayed behind, would be shot." Caspra had hardly noticed it, but the men around them had fallen increasingly silent. Now, standing and crouching around them, just far away enough to be indistinct in the velvety curtain of the gloaming, the two veterans had an audience. "The first part of Lothair's plan kicked off three days before the main assault, and navy troops brought in three massive mortar-cannon and bombarded the Arrian positions. Day and night, it went on and on, the thunder of the guns and the demented wail of the shells. By the end of it we were in pretty high spirits - there was no way that the enemy could have survived an attack like that, so when the Weimdorf Third was ordered over the top, they went without a fuss." Oriel fell silent, as if the mention of his regiment upset so, so Caspra picked up the thread. "They climbed the ladders out of the trench and went rushing up the slope toward the enemy positions. We all watched with bated breath as they climbed the ridge, reached the top, and.. died. The Arrians knew our guns would fire at positions a certain distance away, so they couldn't retreat from us, and so they came nice and close. They were waiting for our men on the other side of the ridge, and when those guildsmen came over the crest of the hill.. they were like lambs to the slaughter." "We thought for sure it was over before it began," said Oriel, "and we looked to Lothair for orders to stand down. It was deathly silent for a minute or two, and then the next order came rushing along the line." "'Forward all regiments, charge for the wall,' he said, and it was repeated up and down the trench. So the guildsmen climbed the ladders, and drew their weapons, and rushed up the slope like the hounds of hell were after them. They swarmed up that hill like locusts and down the other side. Vortigern the all-seeing and the Arrians are the only people in all the world who know what happened to them there, but they didn't come back." "We waited a full five minutes before it went silent again," said Capsra, "and then a new order - the Urban Legions were next. So, we watched as they climbed the ladders, we watched as they drew their weapons, and we watched as they advanced over the ridge into the jaws of death. They went carefully, and they took longer to die. We heard screams and cries of pain and fear for almost an hour. Then Lothair issued the final command; the elite troops were to be committed to batte. So, we climbed the ladders, savoring the feeling of wood on our hands - it may well have been the last chance we'd have - then our swords were in our hands, and we surged up that slope with the whips of the army - bugle calls and horn blasts - at our backs. "There are no words for the horror we saw from the crest of that ridge said Oriel, his voice sticking in his throat, "our comrades, our brothers in arms, were all dead. Massacred. Their bodies lay at the bottom of the slope, piled up against the wall like a grisly ramp. As we got to the top of Sarakhamon, a hail of arrows came whistling over the battlements, and it didn't stop. We marched down the other side, shields held high, and then we marched up again: up over the mounds of our own dead. I remember slipping on the slick blood, and coming down with my knee in a dead man's face." The audience shuddered, and Caspra felt an involuntary shiver run through his own body. Every man who survived that day had their own memories. Dark, private things that kept them awake at night. The screams of the dying, the stench of flesh, putrefying after only minutes under the sun. Nothing they would ever repeat. Khamhara